


sing all your questions to sleep

by Wildehack (tyleet)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, M/M, implied daisy/basira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 18:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyleet/pseuds/Wildehack
Summary: Jon, Martin, and Basira take a breath.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 12
Kudos: 211





	sing all your questions to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before 160, but somehow it wasn't really jossed???? much????????? 
> 
> Title is from Vienna Teng's "Harbor," which is absolutely the song that plays when you walk out of the Lonely holding someone's hand.

When the EMTs and the police officers finally let them go, they’re left standing on the pavement outside the Magnus Institute, currently blocked off with crime scene tape. Basira is huddled in on herself, hands white-knuckled on her own elbows, blood spatter dried on her shirt, flaking off the skin of her cheek. Jon has one hand clutched in the fabric of Martin’s jacket, not quite touching him but unwilling to let him go, either. Martin isn’t speaking at all, really-–he grew paler and paler the longer the questioning went on, and Jon is getting genuinely worried that all the social interaction is-–harmful to him, the way it was harmful to Lukas. 

He’s going to fix it, he swears silently, fist tightening on the cloth of Martin’s jacket. He’s going to fix it and they’re going to be all right.  
  
“We should get off the street,” Basira says, her jaw clenching. “It’s not safe.”  
  
“But we can’t get back in,” Jon says, looking at the tape. Not until forensics cleared it, they said. “I–-I don’t have a flat anymore,” he says, for Martin’s benefit. He’s not sure if Martin’s–-kept up with things.  
  
“And we can’t go to mine,” Basira says, voice flat. “Daisy knows where it is.” She sways a little on her feet, and Jon reaches out to her with his free arm, but she takes the support for barely a second before stepping away and shaking her head. “We need somewhere consecrated by the Eye, or we’ll be vulnerable to attack. I’d hit us now, if I were trying to stop us.” 

Instantly, Jon thinks of Elias Bouchard’s flat in Kensington. There are enough bedrooms for all, resources for whatever they might need, protection from everything except the Eye that already has them. There’s a bottle of expensive scotch that Jonah Magnus is even now pouring into a decanter, setting out an extra glass on the mahogany desk in his study in plain offering. They could have a conversation at last. Jon might finally get answers. Jon blinks hard, dispelling this image, and rubs his thumb hard against the cloth of Martin’s jacket, bringing himself back into his body.  
  
“We could, ah, get a hotel,” Jon says just to have something to say, although he doubts any respectable hotel would take them as they are, at least not if they could see Basira. Maybe not him either, he thinks, remembering that Peter Lukas’s blood is still staining his shoes.  
  
“We can go back to mine,” Martin says vaguely, and when Jon shifts to look at him Martin pulls a tight smile. “It’s been steeped in the Lonely for over a year now. It might hide us from the Hunt. Maybe even from–-Jonah.” 

Jon shivers. “Fine,” he says, although he doesn’t want to take Martin back to anywhere Lonely, doesn’t want the fog to get anywhere near him ever again. “Fine, let’s go.” 

He doesn’t let go of Martin’s arm. As they walk, he finds his free hand reaching automatically for Basira, some instinct reminding him to stay connected, to keep as many of his people as are left alive and with him. He winds up awkwardly cupping her elbow for a while, until she gets tired enough to actually lean on him.

Jon’s never been to Martin’s flat before, but it isn’t the kind of place he would have imagined Martin would live. It’s modern, expensive-looking, and sparsely decorated. He knows, abruptly, that this is a Lukas-designed building. Martin knows it too: Peter encouraged him to move in as part of his transition. It’s not the same building that Peter designed for the Silence-–it’s nicer, less budget-friendly, and the rooms aren’t claustrophobic in the way that Peter described-–but it’s still eerily quiet, and there really are too many doors. There’s just one pillow on the sofa, and no chairs where a visitor might sit. The windows are large but partially frosted, so there isn’t any real way to see the outside world at all, although there’s a constant impression of things happening somewhere else, to other people. It makes Jon’s chest ache, imagining Martin coming back here every night.

Basira vanishes into the bathroom immediately, and Martin almost disappears into the bedroom, tugging himself away so he can take off his jacket, but–-  
  
“–-Martin,” Jon says, unaccountably panicked, and Martin pauses on the threshold, looking back at Jon with an unreadable expression. “Don’t be long?” he says, and his voice cracks unexpectedly on the way out.  
  
“I’m just changing my clothes,” Martin tells him, a small furrow forming between his brows. “I’ll find something for you too. Be right back.”  
  
Jon makes himself nod, and then tries not to feel pathetically grateful when Martin leaves the door cracked. He fumbles his way through removing his shoes, and then fills up the kettle, his hands shaking so badly that he almost drops it twice. He finds the tea right away, and hunts fruitlessly for mugs while the water boils. He can’t hear anything from either of the other rooms, even though the flat isn't that big. Damned sound-proofed walls. 

“Jon,” Martin says from behind him, and Jon flinches. 

“Sorry,” Jon says. “Uh-–I could only find one mug–?”  
  
“Right,” Martin says, wincing slightly. “Um, I’ve only got one? I….threw the rest out when I moved in here. Stupid, but. It made sense at the time?” 

“Oh,” Jon says, and stares at the mug. It’s plain, white, faintly stained on the inside rim. The mug Martin used for years at the Institute-–the one that’s even now sitting on Jon’s desk, a probably moldy tea bag still inside–-is shaped like Darth Vader’s helmet. Gag gift from Sasha for the holiday exchange five years ago. “Martin-–” Jon says helplessly, and Martin gives him a tired half smile as Jon puts the mug back down on the counter and reaches for him.

“I’m okay,” Martin says quietly, arms folding over him so naturally it’s like they’ve done this a hundred times instead of twice.   
  
Jon lets out a shaking breath into Martin’s shoulder and says “I’m so sorry,” keeping his eyes squeezed shut. 

“It’s okay,” Martin says again, barely audible this time.  
  
“It’s not,” Jon says, and tucks his face into Martin's neck, his heart beating violently in his chest.   
  
After a while Jon realizes Martin is trembling finely against him, and just holds on tighter. He doesn’t know how long they stand there like that.  
  
Eventually they make tea in the mug, a glass measuring cup, and one soup bowl.   
  
When Basira finally comes out of the bathroom, red-eyed and scrubbed clean, she finds them sat on the floor in front of Martin’s sofa, Martin half-collapsed against Jon's side, just barely asleep.  
  
“Tea for you on the counter,” Jon whispers, nodding towards the mug.  
  
Basira brings the tea back to the sofa, then curls up on the cushions, hugging her own knees. She doesn’t look at Jon, but he’s familiar with the drill: physical closeness helps the pull of Loneliness, even if it doesn’t feel right. He lets his head tip back slightly, so it just comes into contact with her foot, and says: “Thank you. For giving me time to go find him.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t thank me,” she says, flat. “Thank her.”  
  
Jon feels a familiar surge of grief and guilt. Martin twitches against his shoulder. “She might still come back from this,” he says softly.  
  
“Can you tell?” she asks, taking a measured sip of her tea.  
  
Jon closes his eyes, tries to Know.  
  
“I can’t,” he admits after a while. “I’m sorry, I’m too tired.”  
  
Basira nods stiffly, and takes another gulp of her tea.  
  
“I’ll try again tomorrow,” he says, and Basira nods again, then very carefully puts her mug of tea down on the floor, picks up a throw pillow, and buries her head in it. 

After a second her shoulders shake, and Jon shifts awkwardly away from Martin’s weight–-waking him up, but it can’t be helped–and sits on the sofa beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She sobs audibly this time, and Jon–-isn’t good at this, but there is quite honestly no one else.  
  
Basira cries the way other people throw up, fighting it the whole time. She keeps clutching the pillow to her chest, but lets Jon circle his arm around her, soaking the collar of his shirt. He’s aware of Martin quietly getting up and turning the kettle back on, a familiar electronic hum, but it’s all right because Martin comes back a few minutes later carrying an armful of folded blankets. Eventually her breathing slows, and she pushes Jon away, scrubbing at her face.  
  
Martin mutely hands her a fresh cup of tea. 

“Thanks,” she says, looking more tired than Jon has ever seen her.  
  
These are the people Jon has, he realizes all over again. Not the–-not the only people in the world he loves, but. His people. His allies, his friends, his-–people. He holds out a hand to Martin, and tugs him down when Martin takes it, pressed close between Jon’s hip and the arm of the sofa.  
  
Martin folds a blanket out over their legs, and offers Basira her own. She takes it, spreads it over her knees, stares blankly down at the fabric.   
  
It’s not really that comfortable, and they don’t really talk. They just sit for a while, heads tipped back against the sofa, none of them alone. Jon falls asleep like that, and for once he doesn’t dream. 


End file.
